


and when we say our last goodbye

by Mertiya



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Canonical Character Death, Celebrimbor's Life is a Tragedy, Hurt/Comfort, K-KIND OF, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, ie silvergifting is its own warning, if I had to think about this everyone else has to read it, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:41:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26306494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/Mertiya
Summary: Celebrimbor's torment ends.
Relationships: Annatar/Celebrimbor | Telperinquar
Comments: 37
Kudos: 71





	and when we say our last goodbye

Celebrimbor is dying. It is in the way each breath feels terribly far away, the way he can barely feel his _hröa_ , but he can feel the ragged tatters of his _fëa_ all too well. Not even Annatar can mend him now. It will not be long.

His tormentor is watching him, golden eyes unreadable, his flame-red hair so like and yet unlike the soft silver that Celebrimbor is used to. “Tell me. End this,” he says, but there is no emotion in that voice anymore. Celebrimbor wonders if he can sense the hovering touch of Mandos, as well.

His _hröa_ coughs, and bloody spume spatters across the steel table he is still pinned on. “I could never have told you,” he rasps. “I made sure I would not know. But you know that, don’t you?”

That exquisitely beautiful face nods gently. “I know, Tyelpe.” A hand brushes his cheek, the only touch that he has felt on his face in weeks, perhaps months. Throughout all the long hours, the pain and torment, his hands and face have remained untouched. “I wish you’d trusted me.”

“I _did_ trust you.” The room is turning dim around him. His _fëa_ cries out, but beyond there is dark and unknown, and he cannot make the leap. He is suddenly very afraid. Hot moisture in his eyes. “I always—”

There is no response. Annatar turns towards the door. “I’ll let you have some time for thought,” he says smoothly, and somehow Celebrimbor reaches out and catches his sleeve.

“No,” he gasps. “No, Annatar, _please_ —”

There is _something_ in those golden eyes when Annatar turns back, and a small frown furrowing down between them. “You have nothing for me, Celebrimbor. You have just admitted as much. What do you want?”

Hot moisture on his face, like the hot moisture rising to drown his lungs. “Stay with me.”

For an instant, he sees—he doesn’t know what he sees. Is it the mask cracking? Is it the mask reappearing? Is it something else? Annatar’s face rearranges itself in some way, and Celebrimbor is too far gone to be able to process more than that.

“Why would you want that?” whispers Annatar, and it is so hard to read emotion like this. It is— _frustrating_ —more than anything, the way his broken body will not do what he asks of it. To be able to read your lover’s expression seems like such a simple thing. And yet, with Annatar, nothing is ever simple.

As always, he settles for the truth. “I love you. I don’t want to die alone.” There is a pretty little red pattern on Annatar’s white sleeve that Celebrimbor has never seen before. Annatar himself stands caught and strangely bewildered. Then, slowly, he turns back and seats himself beside the table. Celebrimbor’s lungs heave, but he relaxes a little. “Thank you.”

The darkness returns, and Celebrimbor’s _fëa_ shudders, clinging to the cracked-open shell on the table. He does not want to leave. He fears the dark. He fears whatever is waiting for him. His father, disappointment writ large in his countenance. His people, whom he failed. But not his love, who sits beside him, face impassive, watching him. His heart is beating; at every feeble pulse he hears an unpleasant, sucking noise.

“What are you doing?” Annatar demands.

“What?” Celebrimbor coughs, twitching. There is no _pain_ , exactly, anymore, just an unpleasant feeling of slowly sinking.

Annatar is _angry_ , he realizes, but it is different from the anger he has displayed up until now. Celebrimbor cannot figure out why. “You should be dead by now,” Annatar tells him. “You—I cannot bring you back from this—” _I know, love, I know, I told you to stop_ , “—so why are you still clinging to life?”

“Because I am _afraid_!” Celebrimbor chokes out, his voice half a sob, and Annatar’s eyes widen. “I do not _want_ to die, I have _never_ wanted to die—”

“You could have stopped this at any time!”

“No. I couldn’t have. I told you why. _You_ could have stopped it.”

A soft intake of breath. Annatar gets up, and Celebrimbor’s heart twists and beats and makes that horrible, horrible sucking noise, but he does not leave, only paces in a quick circle and returns. As he does so, his face and form change, red hair bleaching to silver, robes reshaping into the simple daily wear at the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, but that little red flower on his sleeve remains.

“Annatar,” Celebrimbor sighs.

Annatar comes to a halt beside him, a queer light in his eyes. He is very still. “Tyelpe,” he murmurs. “Do you trust me?”

“I have never done anything else.”

“Then…” With a quick motion, Annatar seats himself again, and his hand takes Celebrimbor’s. Softly, he begins to hum a sleepy little tune that Celebrimbor has never heard before. It reminds him of the soft drone of summer bees. The strange, torn-up feeling in Celebrimbor’s chest begins to fade, and the room darkens further. “Sleep, beloved,” Annatar’s voice whispers at the edge of Celebrimbor’s hearing, and the gentle caress of his fingers on the top of Celebrimbor’s hand is the last thing that Celebrimbor feels.

_And when we say our last goodbye_

_I’ll be the one to say I hope you stay_

_\--_ “Run With Me,” Clarence Coffee Jr.

**Author's Note:**

> title from the song that inspired this fic, which fills me with entirely too many silvergifting feels, "Run to Me" by Clarence Coffee Jr from the Home soundtrack


End file.
